


Heartland

by uumuu



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, F/F, Flowers, Fluff and Angst, Imloth Melui
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arwen struggles with mortality, and the ineluctability of loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).



> Many thanks to my beta!

  
  


 

The title of Queen of Gondor is still largely a venerated relic in the tales passed down through generations, rather than the way to address a being of breath and flesh. Arwen, with her imposing figure and exalted lineage, is to many no more than that: a mythic figure, lofty and unapproachable.

Ioreth isn't flustered by her presence, and Arwen is intimately grateful to the old healer for that.

They had met her for the first time soon after Arwen arrived in Minas Tirith, when Ioreth was among the ladies who helped her get ready for the wedding ceremony. Something in her lively gaze, her assured, brisk manners, and her forwardness had won Arwen’s heart from the very start, and helped soothe her anxiety as she transitioned to a new life.

They now sit face to face across a small round table upon which a carafe of barley water stands, with two plain glasses next to it. The drink itself is simple, made from the mint and lemon delivered every morning from Imloth Melui. Ioreth fills both glasses and hands one to Arwen, who thanks her and sips silently at the now-familiar drink, enjoying the zesty taste.

A robin flies over their heads, and lands on the morning glory which creeps up the wall of the house all the way to the eaves of the roof. The house had been a present from the King to Ioreth and her wife for their strenuous service in the Houses of Healing – a small building not too far from the Houses itself, encircled by its own garden. It had remained empty after the War, and Arwen has already spent many a pleasant afternoon there in Ioreth's company.

Ioreth drinks the barley water heartily and once her glass is empty she sets it down with a contented sigh.

Arwen sets her glass down too. Time spent with Ioreth brings her joy and amusement, but as weeks and months chase one another her uneasiness grows ever stronger instead of being assuaged. She had seen a good number of mortals in Imladris, witnessed their decay in some cases, and mourned their deaths, but those had been sporadic events. In Minas Tirith funerals are an everyday occurrence, even after the war. Death is constantly mingled with life, and it is harder to get used to the reality of it than she had expected.

She can't bring herself to accept the idea that this is her fate too now.

She reaches across the small table and takes Ioreth's wrinkled hands in hers. She squeezes them just barely, as if afraid she could crush them as she might a flower. They're warm, and soft, but the skin is roughened with the markings of old age.

“What does it feel like, growing old?” she asks.

Ioreth raises her eyebrows. She glances at Arwen's smooth, flawless hands. Arwen notices where her gaze is directed, and makes to draw back.

“I beg your pardon, I shouldn't have –”

“No, no...it is fine.” Ioreth clamps her hands around Arwen's, and gives the queen one of her arch, but not disrespectful, smiles. “It is not a pleasant thing, Your Highness,” she says with a sigh. Arwen makes a low grumbling sound, reminding Ioreth she doesn't want to be called that, not by her. “My Lady,” Ioreth corrects, her smile widening and spreading to her alert, light-brown eyes too. “But...you see, at my age, I have seen many people die. Too many people, not just in the war...children I wasn't able to cure of their ailments, young folks who died in banal accidents...old age is both a curse and a blessing. Your body weakens, but it is not too bad, if in your mind and your heart, you stay young. Death itself is tragic, but is only truly grievous for those who remain.”

Arwen nods. She lets go of Ioreth's hands and hangs her head, but Ioreth extends a hand to her cheek, caressing it gently. Arwen looks up again and for a moment they just stare at each other, then Ioreth clears her throat and cheerfully says, “would you like to have dinner with us here, sometime, my Lady?”

“Ioreth!” Ioreth's lover calls from inside the house. “You can't invite the Queen to eat supper with us here!”

“Were you eavesdropping?” Ioreth calls back at the top of her lungs, leaning forward with her hand still on Arwen's cheek towards the window around which Mellessil's blond head peeks.

“You speak too loud, as always. You are too inconsiderate, as always.”

Arwen can't help chuckling at their antics. She takes hold of Ioreth's hands again, and when Ioreth turns says, “I would be honoured to dine with you.”

*

Ioreth and Mellessil have donned their best garments to host the queen, but the atmosphere in their house is cosy and relaxed. A fire is lit in the fireplace to one end of the room, and candles pour their warm glow over the table. Ioreth prattles on from the moment they sit down, barely eating any of the food on her plate. Arwen has to content herself with interjections and brief comments, but she doesn't really mind. Ioreth's speech is lively and heartfelt, and her enthusiasm reaches its peak when the (mostly one-sided) conversation lands on one of her favourite topics, and the dearest: Imloth Melui, the place of her birth.

“Do these roses come from there?” Arwen asks while Ioreth is taking a bite of the pudding, still almost whole, in front of her.

In the middle of the round table, there's a tall vase with a bunch of roses. Most of them are still blossoms, tightly closed to shield the colour of their inner petals. Those which are open are large plump screens of red and yellow, barely wrinkled at the edges, and give off a sweet scent that isn't excessively strong.

“Yes,” Ioreth confirms. “They were brought in this morning and I thought to myself it was such a perfect coincidence.”

Arwen gives her a quizzical look.

“They remind me of you, my Lady: tall and beautiful, full of grace and strong.”

Mellessil for once doesn't chide Ioreth, but smiles and nods her head.

Arwen feels herself flush. She's used to being complimented on her beauty. In over three thousand years of life she's heard all possible manner of compliments and flattery, from all manner of people: elves, mortals, hobbits, and even dwarves. And yet here, from this old mortal healer, the words suddenly seem to re-acquire their meaning in full, the truth she hasn't perceived in them for a long time.

Ioreth lays her fork down and stands up. Mellessil stands on her guard against any possible misbehaviour on the part of her lover, but Ioreth's gestures are swift and assured. She takes one of the open roses from the vase, peels the thorns with her knife, and cuts the stem. She inspects the stub which is left, sliding her fingers along it to make sure there aren't any thorns left. Satisfied, she turns to Arwen and gently slips it through the hair on the left side of her head, right above her ear, securing it under the coil of a bejewelled braid.

“There, you look absolutely gorgeous, my Lady,” Ioreth says, clasping her hands together in an almost childish display of mirth. “Mellessil, my love, please fetch us a mirror?”

Arwen's heart skips a beat, and she brings her hands over her legs to hide the fact that they tremble, though it is probably only her imagination that they do. “How long have you and Mellessil been together?”

“Oh, since we were lasses and found ourselves together as apprentices in the Houses of Healing. We have rarely spent a day apart after that.”

Mellessil and Ioreth's gazes meet for a moment, and the utter, loving complicity between the two old ladies sparkles in their eyes, like the moon used to reflect on the pools and waterfalls of Imladris in shards of brilliance. Mellessil holds the mirror right in front of Arwen.

Arwen eagerly peers at her reflection.

“I would like to see Imloth Melui,” she says, while she stares at the rose in the mirror and lifts her hand to gently touch its sheeny petals.

Ioreth's gaze fills with longing. “Oh, I haven't been there in such a long time. We could go there together, whenever you wish, my Lady. You too, my love.”

Mellessil tut-tuts, shaking her head. “You two should go on your own.”

*

Arwen and Ioreth set out two days later at dawn, when the air is still cool and the light muted, in a cart yoked with two strong black horses. They follow the large bend of the Anduin south of Minas Tirith, but when the river veers towards the sea, the cart continues west.

Arwen and Ioreth don't talk during the journey. Ioreth has a heap of wildflowers in her lap and is making a wreath. It is late spring, and every patch of soil in Minas Tirith yields plants in abundance. Arwen is unsure what the purpose of the wreath is, but doesn't ask. Following the movement of Ioreth's hands as she bends and joins the flowers together is pleasant enough, and when she doesn't look at Ioreth, Arwen gazes curiously at the landscape. She hasn't seen much of Gondor yet. Estel has been busy with the reconstruction, for the most part, and their few outings have taken them north, to peer at landscapes she is more familiar with.

The sun is shining full force when the cart crosses a rivulet at a ford. Ioreth looks up, excited, and turns towards Arwen, murmuring, “we are almost there there”. The wreath lays on her lap – a mosaic of colours, two sprigs of thyme lending it a most lovely scent – alongside a few excess flowers. One of them falls down and Arwen bends to pick it up. She makes to give it back to Ioreth, but Ioreth gestures for her to keep it. Now Ioreth too gazes at the land, growing more and more restless as the cart progresses.

They're almost at the top of a rather steep rise when Ioreth abruptly asks the driver to stop. The man mutters under his breath, but reins the horses in. Ioreth springs out of the cart, not waiting for the attendant who travels at the back of it to open the door.

“Is something wrong?” Arwen asks, slightly worried.

“No, no,” Ioreth says, her eyes alight with excitement. “It is a surprise.”

Ioreth holds the wreath in her left hand and holds the right out to Arwen. Arwen, though puzzled, covers it with her own and nimbly dismounts from the cart.

Ioreth at once turns and strides towards the top of the hill, so fast that Arwen's worry deepens with every stride. But all that disappears when they reach the top of the hill.

“There it is: Imloth Melui,” Ioreth says, opening her arms towards the landscape beneath, and for once doesn't dive into a long ramble, but takes her fill of the scenery.

The reason is obvious. The bright green hills cradle a valley entirely bedecked with flowers. It is by no means the first one Arwen has seen in her long life, but she can appreciate why Ioreth is so enrapt.

It looks as if a painter took a brush and swept down streaks of colour on the grass: there's red and light blue, followed by bright bright yellow and darker blue, then red and rose and white, following one another and sometimes mingling together in thin stripes. A narrow, winding river runs in the middle of it, and houses are scattered here and there. The side where the hills cast their shade is just a little bit darker, making the the sun-kissed side seem even brighter in turn.

“It is...most charming,” Arwen says, and smiles at Ioreth.

Ioreth smiles back, but her next words are soft, almost shy, tinged with sorrow. “My father is buried in this valley, over there...where that knoll is. He loved this place. He would take me and my sisters into the valley or up the hills, to teach us about plants and flowers whenever he had time. Our house stood not too far from here, but after my father died, and my sisters all got married, my mother went to live with relatives, and it fell into ruin.” She sighs, her eyes chasing memories among the flowers. “I want to be buried here, too.”

Arwen forces herself to nod, but her body, her mind are at once swathed by a numbing trepidation.

The wreath now makes sense.

A memory of her own mother, long gone from her, and thoughts of the family across the Sea who she will never meet assail her with sorrow, cold and stifling. She turns towards the road. The cart-driver and the attendant are both looking in her direction, but she doesn't care if they can see the tears welling up in her eyes. She squeezes them tight, recalls her father's words of so many centuries before – that loss could be inevitable, irreparable, even for Elves, and that it was no blessing and could only be endured – words she hadn't imagined could ever apply to her.

When she chose to share Estel's fate, she knew that they would have many years together.

She has only just met Ioreth, and in a few months death might carry her away. She is almost overwhelmed by an instinct to scream against how unjust that is, and an urge to spend as much as time as she could with her, listen to as much as she could of her monologues, look upon her kind smiling face so as to never forget it.

“My Lady?”

Ioreth's voice makes Arwen flinch. She blinks her tears away, hoping Ioreth won't see them.

Ioreth is holding the wreath with both hands when Arwen faces her again.

“Would you bend down for me, my Lady?”

Arwen the lump in her throat; her hands fidget uselessly to smooth her skirt. “Is that...not for your father?”

Ioreth looks surprised for an instant, then the smile is back on her lips – a true smile, which quickly spreads on her face and becomes radiant. “Oh no, I have another gift for my father. This is for you...to make you Queen of my heartland, too.”

Arwen bends. Ioreth gently places the wreath on her head, and gently tucks the strands of hair that have slipped over her shoulders behind her ears again.

It is a keen, heart-piercing moment. Sweet and bitter, harrowingly beautiful. Fleeting.

Arwen turns to look at the valley. The flowers are only there because it is spring, and in a few weeks they will wither, and be gone. She takes Ioreth's left hand, lifts it to her lips, and kisses the back of it. Ioreth closes her hand around Arwen's but before she can bring it to her own lips, Arwen bends again and brushes their mouths together, in a kiss light as the breeze that ripples down the hills and sweet as flower-scent.

Ioreth's happy chuckle reverberates through Arwen's body. She throws her arms around Ioreth and hugs her to her breast, as if to never let go.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA 16/03/2017: [amyfortuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna) designed a lovely cover for this story. It should show at the beginning of the story; [here](http://b2mem.livejournal.com/438615.html#t6517335) is a link to the full res pic.


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